Comedy Girl Read online

  “Do you mean that in a good way?”

  He nodded. “You think differently from other girls. I’m not used to dating someone who wants more from life than a makeover.”

  “Thanks,” I said, beaming.

  “And you think differently from me,” he confessed.

  “But I don’t want to be different from you,” I said, feeling a lonely pang.

  “Why? You follow your dream,” he replied.

  “So do you. You’re going to be an architect.”

  “That’s my father’s dream,” he whispered. “Being practical.”

  “Then what is yours?”

  He half laughed. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  “Well…”

  “I don’t have a dream.”

  “There is nothing you’re passionate about?”

  “Those lips,” he said, looking at my mouth.

  I smiled. “But really.”

  “I’ve always wanted to write,” he said, thoughtful.

  “Nothing’s stopping you—”

  “There’s a lot of things stopping me.”

  “Just yourself.”

  “Anyway,” he said, changing his tone. “I admire your courage to go onstage. And to come here.”

  I felt my heart melt inside.

  “But I’m chicken when it comes to performing in front of you. Come to Chaplin’s as soon as my set is over,” I began. “And watch hilarious touring professional middles and headliners. I’ll get you in for free and we’ll sit together. I’ll introduce you to any comic you want to meet.”

  “Bernie Mac?” he asked, excited.

  “I don’t think he’s played Chaplin’s for years.”

  “It was cool you came over. It took guts.” Gavin sat next to me on the couch.

  Then he leaned over and kissed me. “Why don’t you take off that coat,” he suggested.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 11:30. “I have to go! Sarge and Dad will be home any minute.”

  “You have something on your leg,” he said as I reached the door.

  “Oh, it’s—,” but he had already tugged at it. He ended up with a fistful of tape as my dress unraveled.

  “It was Jazzy’s idea!” I said, embarrassed.

  “Isn’t everything Jazzy’s idea?”

  “I wanted you back.”

  “You could have just said, ‘Sorry.’”

  “Sorry? That’s all I had to do?”

  “It wasn’t all your fault. You needed space. That’s cool…. I should have respected that. I just wanted to see you shine.”

  I hugged him tight.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Jazzy I had made up with Gavin without even taking off my coat. I drove home, the snow softly hitting the windshield like tiny kisses.

  FATHER KNOWS BEST

  One night, during the headliner’s set, I grabbed my purse and bolted for a bathroom break. I opened the theater doors into the lobby and bumped into a man in a Big Bob’s baseball cap and sunglasses. “Excuse me,” I said and raced off.

  “You dropped this, Trix,” a familiar voice said. The man picked up my hairbrush, which had dropped to the floor.

  I slowly turned around as the oddly dressed man retreated and tried to escape back into the club.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “Dad?”

  “You must be mistaken,” the man muttered in a deep voice.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked, puzzled. “You’re supposed to meet me at the bar when I’m done.”

  “I…uh…”

  “And why are you wearing that stupid hat? You never wear hats!”

  “I was…cold?”

  “You snuck in tonight?” I asked condescendingly.

  “Well…yes.”

  “You know that’s forbidden!” And then it dawned on me. “Don’t tell me you’ve always been here!”

  “Of course not. The bar has a TV—sometimes I watch the Bears.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I slip in when they call your name and watch from the kitchen till you run onstage at the end of the show,” he confessed, proud of his scheme.

  “It sounds like something I’d do,” I said, remembering the Varicose Veins concert. “But what about the four-letter words and blue humor some of the headliners use?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Nothing I haven’t heard Sid say,” he said.

  “But this was my private thing. Didn’t you trust me?”

  “Of course. But you work in…a bar.”

  “It’s a comedy club, Dad, not a strip club!”

  “And you’re only seventeen.”

  “Only? In Tibet I could rule a country.”

  “I’m sorry, Trix. If you were a father, you’d understand.”

  “If you were a teenager, you’d understand.”

  I was totally conflicted. As much as I felt betrayed, I also felt like I had a guardian angel who had patiently stood back to let me fly on my own, but kept an eye out so I didn’t crash into a tree.

  Ben poked his head out the theater door. “Trixie, Frank’s almost done. You’ve gotta do closing announcements.”

  “Your act improves all the time,” my dad said assuredly.

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  It was nice to know he’d seen me perform at something beyond Talent Night.

  “And your mother…,” he whispered.

  “Sarge? At Chaplin’s? How could you?” I whined.

  “How could I keep her away? She was so proud of you!”

  “But I would have heard her coming a mile away!”

  “Well, her disguise was better than mine. She wore a cook’s uniform and watched with me from the kitchen. She was only here once, though. She saw you perform and then got banned when Vic found her trying to fire the cook.”

  Ben poked his head out again and anxiously said, “Trixie, let’s go!”

  “But I didn’t get to pee!”

  “Hey,” said Dad. “Watch your language!”

  “See, this is why fathers aren’t allowed. If you heckle me—I’ll throw you out personally,” I said with a grin.

  From then on Dad sat hidden in the back of the house with a bowl of peanuts within arm’s reach. He became an armchair comedian. On the short ride home he’d give me friendly advice. During the day I started to run new jokes by him. We rented DVDs of comedians and dissected their jokes and performances. We’d review my videotapes at Chaplin’s and analyze what worked, what didn’t, and why. My act began improving at a rapid pace.

  SPECIAL GUEST

  Chicago’s windchill factor had calmed, and overcast skies were replaced with vanilla cotton ball clouds and blue sky. Spring. The biggest decision of a student’s life was rolling near—college. Where did I want to go? Did I want to go? What did I want to major in? What were my goals?

  Gavin and Jazzy applied to Northwestern—Gavin for architecture, and Jazzy for marketing. To me college was just high school that you had to pay for. However, since my parents had a glimpse of comics struggling on the road, they insisted I had to have something to fall back on—at least a liberal arts education. I had no natural desire to go to a university, but I wanted to be near Gavin, Jazzy, and Chaplin’s. Northwestern had a beautiful campus and was on Lake Michigan.

  And if I didn’t fill out the application, Sergeant would.

  The next four months my dreams continued to come true, but I was always afraid they would unravel at any moment and I’d wake up in the morning without a boyfriend or a stage to perform on—back to the same person I’d been when those seniors threw me into a bush with Jazzy.

  I kept in touch with Cam through e-mail while he traveled the road to Denver, Phoenix, Milwaukee, Louisville, and New York. He encouraged me to hit other clubs too. Local comics from Chaplin’s suggested other open mikes. Soon Dad began schlepping me to Evanston’s Holiday Inn and downtown Chicago’s Bar None. Vic even booked me to emcee a corporate party. I took every gig I could get,
every open mike where I could perform.

  It was nice to receive compliments every night and make new friends, which had always been a challenge for the shy me. Many things that had always been difficult now came more easily, even performing. I still bombed occasionally, but was able to shrug off the bad performances as I realized it was more a lack of chemistry with the audience than my material. And my material, my delivery, and my confidence were progressing from week to week.

  It was during this time that I stopped dreaming about star-shaped pools and Hollywood parties. My mind didn’t have time to wander, as all my energy was spent juggling homework, writing new material, performing, and dating Gavin. My lavish fantasy bedroom reverted to the reality of a tiny room strewn with dirty clothes, and sheets I didn’t have time to change. Instead of being a Glam Girl when I saw Gavin, I had to mask the bags that began making a permanent home underneath my eyes.

  As for school, I don’t know how I managed to keep up my grades and near perfect attendance—maybe it was the three cups of coffee I downed every morning and the Power Bars I ate for lunch. My minor celebrity status, which had initially seemed temporary, was now taken for granted by my classmates and teachers. Even Mr. Owens began referring to me as “The Comedienne.”

  At home, Sarge seemed resigned to my new career, my late nights, the smell of smoke on my clothes—but she still made me do the dishes. As for my dad, it’s ironic that a disguise brought us closer together and I saw qualities in him that I had never known existed. He was very creative. He could spot a bad joke coming before the punch line was said. He saw an “off” night as a challenge to turn into an “on” night. He was patient during the late-night drives and enthusiastic when everything clicked. I think I was as much surprised by the changes in him as he was by the changes in me.

  Finally there was Gavin. Still in my life, working on smile number 1,006…1,007?…When did I stop counting? I somehow made time for Saturday matinees, Sunday videos, and kissing sessions before study hall. But seeing him every day and walking with his arm around me didn’t lessen my awe of him, or the fear I felt of losing him every time a cheerleader looked his way.

  “Does this look luscious or what?” Jazzy said, modeling a navy-blue prom dress in Groovy Garments’ fitting room. “It says fun, inviting, sexy!” She twirled around as if she was a prom angel. “Now you.”

  “I hate mine,” I scoffed, wearing a puffy pink taffeta dress. “It looks like a tablecloth.”

  “Here, try this,” Jazzy said, pulling another dress off the pile of outfits stacked in the fitting room. “One is bound to work.”

  She zipped me into a tight red spaghetti-strapped number. “We’ve hit a home run, Trix!” Jazzy exclaimed.

  I looked at myself in the fabulous dress. We posed side by side.

  “Who’d ever have thought, Trix, that two bush girls would wind up with super-hot dates to the prom.”

  “I still can’t believe it. I remember you and me sitting in study hall staring at Gavin and Stinkface.”

  “In two weeks we’ll be snuggling close with our men in front of the whole school. And then after the prom we’ll have them all to ourselves. Ricky rented a hotel room and everything.”

  “The only hotels I can stay at are ones used on family vacations.”

  “Trix, it’s the prom. It’s Gavin Baldwin.”

  “Sarge wouldn’t let me stay at a hotel with the pope!”

  “You can always stop by for a visit,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “If you want my mother to show up too…oh, Jazz, I just can’t believe it. Me and Gavin Baldwin, walking into senior prom together. Me and him and a corsage!”

  “It is so flash!” she said, squeezing my hand. “Our dreams are coming true!”

  “And by the looks of it,” I said, glancing at the price tag, “dreams can be really expensive.”

  Friday night at Chaplin’s. With much begging, Vic let me feature through the weekend. Dad even let me drive myself home, since the White Sox were on TV.

  “I loathe high school,” I began. An unassuming stout man opened the theater door. He stood in the back and glanced around the club. Audience and staff around him were distracted by his presence, whispering and staring at him. He finally took a seat with Vic at a back table, hidden in the shadows.

  “Make sure he has a doctor’s excuse for arriving late,” I commented to the audience. “I guess he had to buy scalped tickets.”

  Since it wasn’t Gavin, his entrance didn’t derail my routine. I returned to my material and finished without a hitch. When I came off the stage, Vic’s friend was gone.

  “Trixie,” Vic said emphatically, waving me over. “We have a guest tonight. He wants to try out some new material. You’ll have to introduce him after Chuck finishes.”

  “I have to memorize another name?” I whined.

  “I think you’ll remember this one. It’s Jelly Bean.”

  “Jelly Bean? You mean the Jelly Bean? The comedian? Yeah, right. And I play center for the Bulls!”

  Just then the theater doors cracked open into the lobby, and I could see a man in a maroon jogging suit surrounded by a small gathering, towering over a college cutie—signing an autograph.

  My eyes lit up. Jelly Bean? Here? This couldn’t be true! Touring professionals came in and out of Chaplin’s every week—Vic told stories about celebrities showing up, but I thought they were just stories. Since I’d been working Chaplin’s, the only celebrity I had seen was Tony Danza—and he was in the audience. But Jelly Bean? I was in the presence of greatness!

  “No way!” I begged Vic. “When did he come in? Oh no!” I exclaimed with sudden revelation. He was the man who came in late! I told the audience Jelly Bean bought scalped tickets!

  “Have a nervous breakdown after the show,” Vic said, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  I buried myself at a side table. I wanted to ask Jelly for his autograph, yet I wanted to behave like a professional. But the reality was that I was a total mess. I wanted to giggle, cry, scream, and bow down at his feet all at the same time. I wanted to call Sarge, Jazzy, Gavin, but there wasn’t enough time. Chuck was cutting his set short, so I had to pay close attention for the introduction cue.

  “Thank you very much,” Chuck said to the audience, and hopped offstage.

  I sucked a straw like it was a cigarette and ran from my lookout post to fill the empty stage. “We have a special guest tonight here at Chaplin’s. A comedy legend, a major movie star, and a framed poster on my wall! Give a big hand for Jelly Bean!”

  Jelly Bean sauntered onstage with a cigar to thunderous applause. His huge hand swallowed my tiny hand. I stood frozen, staring up at the massive megastar.

  “I can’t believe you’re standing here,” I proclaimed like a gushy groupie.

  “I can’t believe it either, not after eating three Chaplin burgers.”

  The crowd went wild. I realized I was still onstage and quickly hurried off, grabbing an empty seat at a front table.

  “People say TV adds ten pounds,” he began, standing massively in his brightly colored sweat suit. “You can see I’ve been on TV a lot. I better get a radio job before I explode!” he said wildly, taking a puff from his cigar as we laughed.

  “Don’t tell me I’m not charitable. I’ve made donations to a starving third world country. I’ve been donating fat!”

  I had never heard a reaction like this before. Everyone laughed hysterically and sat glued to his every word. Out of all the comics I’d ever watched live, none held the audience in the palm of his hands like Jelly. He was a master. He could have blown his nose and gotten a standing ovation. My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.

  After his set, he was whisked away by Vic while I made final announcements. I ran offstage but Jelly Bean had gone. Where did he go? Maybe he was staying at the Amber Hills Hotel or the Four Seasons—locked inside a celebrity suite. My one glimpse of my hero and no photograph, no signature, no proof of his presence.

 
; I ran to the lobby to use my cell phone—one of the perks of making two hundred dollars a week—and called Jazzy. I was dramatically recounting my incredible tale when Vic called me back into the club.

  “I want you to meet someone.”

  I followed Vic to his empty table. Just then Jelly Bean stepped out from the kitchen, carrying a basket of chicken wings.

  I was in the presence of a legend. My framed poster was coming alive and walking toward me.

  “Jelly Bean, this is Trixie Shapiro.”

  “I worship you! I totally love you!” I blubbered uncontrollably.

  “We were just talking about you,” Jelly Bean said with a smile. “Sit down, please.”

  “I’ve got all your CDs!” I rambled on. “I own your HBO special—Jelly Bean Live and Artificially Flavored, and Jelly Bean—The Movie.”

  “Sit down—please!” he insisted as he scooted himself into a seat.

  “Thanks,” I said, plopping into a chair. “I’d hate to faint in front of you.”

  “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  “Anything you want me to,” I exclaimed.

  Jelly Bean flagged the waitress and ordered me a Coke.

  “Chicken wing?” he asked, handing me the basket.

  I’d eat a squirrel soaked in cheese if it came from Jelly Bean.

  I laid the wing on a cocktail napkin and pulled off a tiny piece of meat, afraid sauce would smear on my face.

  “So how long have you been doing stand-up?” Jelly Bean asked.

  “Since the beginning of the school year.”

  “Man,” Jelly Bean said, turning his attention to Vic. “Do you remember when time was measured in school years? A year lasted nine months. An hour lasted fifty-five minutes. Now I measure a year by my annual prostate exam.”

  “Jelly Bean has a job for you,” Vic said.

  “You want me to baby-sit your kids?”

  “I’m doing Vegas in two weeks,” Jelly Bean began. “My opener is going to be out for two nights and I want you to emcee.”

  I thought I was hearing things. “Me? You want me?”

  “Would you rather suggest someone else?”